Glass Houses
by Magic Gerbil
Summary: "I knew this enterprise was doomed from the start." What enterprise? Transferring from Beauxbatons to Stella di Mattina Academy of Sorcery, of course. "I love being proved wrong." *ch 6 up*
1. Off Into the World

Glass Houses  
  
Author's Notes: This is a story that's been floating around in my head for quite a while, and after thinking about it one day I just had the urge to write it. I apologize in advance for any French or Italian mistakes I might make. Stella di Mattina means "Morning Star" in Italian, and "ciel" means sky or heaven in French, often used as an exclamation. I know the concept of the transfer student is overdone, but I just needed it here.  
  
Disclaimer: The wizarding world and all related concepts belong to J.K. Rowling; Stella di Mattina and all characters in this story belong to me. On with the show.  
  
  
Part One  
  
I'm just not ready.  
  
I know it's time; it's been a whole summer and I can't just stay home from school forever. I'm really very lucky; I'm getting a chance to start over, and this time I'll get it right. So why aren't I happy?  
  
I don't want to leave. I always was happy at home, and this blissful summer has gotten me used to feeling safe and peaceful. I'm used to sleeping in the pine shade, used to spinning in the sunlight with the autumn leaves, used to staring at the rows of obsidian candles until the flames are patterned on my eyes. I'm used to my parents eating breakfast by the window with light flooding through the thin sky-blue curtain, smiling for me to join them, clearing their newspapers to make room for me. I'm used to listening as Marc sobs and wails while I'm curled in bed, clutching Véronique, who has absorbed my own tears.  
  
I am not used to Stella Di Mattina Academy of Sorcery, and I'm not ready to get used to it. Ca ne fait rien - it doesn't matter. Ready or not, the enchanted balloon will arrive tomorrow, and ready or not, I will board it and be taken away.  
  
--  
  
Flicking the switch on her Reminisce, a combination of magic and science designed to connect to and record its user's thoughts, Orélie Jacques sighed deeply. The sparrows outside her bedroom window ceased their noise for a moment, and then continued the serenade. Behind the rectangular panes of frosted glass, Orélie shoved the spherical purple device into the pocket of her robes and flopped onto her unmade bed. One long arm curved automatically to encompass Véronique, a stuffed seal whose once-gray fur had faded to beige.  
  
The tiny star-like mirrors on Orélie's ceiling twinkled down at the thirteen-year-old girl on the bed. In a restless motion, she brushed her wispy golden-brown hair away from her face, where it fanned onto the cream-colored pillow like a darkened halo. Wide-eyed and delicate, Orélie indeed resembled an angel gone wrong. The source of this wrongness was difficult to place. Perhaps it was the jerkiness in her movements, or the stubborn fear in those wide amber eyes. Perhaps it was the way her long fingers were constantly flexing and unflexing; maybe it was the visible sharpness in her teeth.  
  
Whatever the source of her nameless flaw, it was not what troubled Orélie at the moment. No, she had bigger fish to fry, and it was these fish that occupied her thoughts as her mother pushed the door open.  
  
"Orélie?" The low voice of Fiorella Jacques drifted, hesitant, into the room. Her height required her to stoop as she crossed Orélie's threshold, and the chignon atop her head brushed the doorframe. The prone figure on the bed stirred in acknowledgement. Fiorella placed a neatly folded stack of her daughter's robes on the mahogany dresser. With a sigh unconsciously echoing that of Orélie, she approached the bed and instinctively straightened the pillowcase. "I know you're nervous." Orélie responded with stubborn, sullen silence, one cold hand twisting in the grip of another. Fiorella tried again: "I'm sorry. The last two years have been hard for you, I know, but you have to go to school, and--"  
  
"I know," Orélie responded wearily, turning to face her mother. "It's just the way things are," she continued in a monotone. "Ce qui sera, sera." What will be will be.  
  
In an attempt at encouragement, Fiorella gripped one of Orélie's hands. "I really do think you'll be happy there. The Headmasters seem like very nice people, and the school is supposed to be very progressive. It's right by the Mediterranean; think how lovely that will be."  
  
"I know," Orélie repeated. "I looked at the brochure. It's by the Mediterranean, and it's built of peach-colored stone, and there are trees and gardens around it. It's pretty. Maybe after a while I'll be happy there. It's the while that I'm afraid of."  
  
"Oh, Lapinne." The old nickname, grown from Orélie's fondness for rabbits, came easily to Fiorella. "You'll get through it. You're our brave girl. Just make a good impression, and it won't be Beauxbatons all over again."  
  
Orélie exhaled, almost a sigh but not quite, as a protective frost spread over her eyes. "I know." She paused, held Véronique closer. "I know."  
  
--  
  
The next morning, warm and pleasantly breezy if lacking in sunshine, found the Jacques family assembled on the deck behind their house. Like a family portrait, they stood close together and organized: first Fiorella, looking regal with her dark blonde hair in an elaborate braid and holding the largest of Orélie's valises; then Etienne, several inches shorter than his wife, impeccably clad in bright green robes and tickling two-year-old Marc. In front of her parents was Orélie, clutching her valises tightly. She was dressed up for the occasion in indigo robes and amethyst earrings, with her hair in a loose knot, bringing out her resemblance to her mother. Her face was pale and blank, nervous eyes scanning the sky.  
  
"Any sign of it?" enquired Etienne over the noise of Marc's giggles.  
  
"Non," replied Fiorella brusquely. "Stop being so nervous. It's contagious." She grinned at Orélie, hoping to inspire a reaction, but none came. "Maybe there was traffic," she continued, forcing a laugh and elbowing her husband in the ribs.  
  
"Ow," Etienne protested. "Traffic, heheh."  
  
Orélie relented and addressed her little brother. "Marc, promise me you'll try to keep these two sane." Marc turned his head toward his sister at the sound of his name, then lost interest.  
  
"Are you sure you packed everything?" Etienne pressed. Orélie sighed, nodded and submitted herself to what she knew was coming. "Wand?"  
  
"Check."  
  
"Schoolbooks?" Fiorella added.  
  
"Check."  
  
"Money in case you need anything?" That was Etienne again, though they might as well have been interchangeable.  
  
"Check."  
  
"Uniform for special occasions?" Unlike most magical schools, Stella Di Mattina Academy did not require its students to wear uniforms full-time, following the assertion that "young people need a way to express themselves."  
  
"Check."  
  
"Blon!" shouted Marc, pointing at the sky. As one, the three other members of the family tilted their heads upward. There they could see a sapphire-blue hot air balloon slowly descending on a path that was leading straight to the Jacques yard.  
  
"Well, there it is," Etienne stated unhelpfully with a nervous smile at Orélie.  
  
"Oh, please don't land on my perennials," prayed Fiorella as she stared in terror at the multicolored blossoms. Dropping Orélie's valise, she covered her face with ring-adorned hands, causing the rubies and aquamarines to twinkle in the weak rays of sunlight. Orélie silently retrieved her luggage (light brown and monogrammed in viridian), reached into her pocket and activated her Reminisce.  
  
--  
  
Oh ciel, it's here! It's plummeting down so fast, just like my stomach. It's like a bomb, sent here to destroy us all - no, I won't think that, I won't disrespect Guilliame that way. It's not a bomb, it's a balloon, a perfectly harmless, horrible, evil balloon come to take me away and bring me to some school all the way in Italy where everyone will hate me and I'll be all alone except for Véronique.  
  
Help me, Véronique, can't you stop the balloon? I used to believe you could do anything. You could do anything.  
  
--  
  
Fiorella needn't have worried; the balloon landed a safe distance away from her tidy rows of flowers. As the large structure alit gently on the verdant, obssessively trimmed grass, an orange-haired wizard poked his head out and looked around. Spotting Orélie, he grinned cheerfully and waved.  
  
"Buon giorno," he called, then continued in Italian. "You must be Signorina Jacques. I'm Antonio, your transport to Stella Di Mattina." Orélie smiled shakily and approached the balloon slowly, hunched with the weight of her suitcases. Fiorella and Etienne followed, the former with a hand on Orélie's silk-covered shoulder, the latter carrying Marc.  
  
Antonio proved to be a very young wizard, perhaps nineteen or twenty. Though not handsome, particularly due to his bushy eyebrows, his smile-wreathed face exuded benevolence as he hefted Orélie's valises into the balloon basket. "You're transferring from Beauxbatons, no?" he ascertained. "You'll like Stella Di Mattina; I graduated from there myself."  
  
Orélie responded politely in Italian; Fiorella hailed from Milan and the Jacques children were bilingual. Antonio waited patiently while Fiorella and Etienne said their last goodbyes.  
  
"We'll write to you every day," murmured Fiorella reassuringly, "and it won't be long until vacation. Remember, you have the power to change things, make it different this time." She gave her daughter a tight hug. "We love you."  
  
Then it was Etienne's turn. He moved to tousle Orélie's hair, then stopped as he saw the smooth knot. "You're growing up so fast," was his wistful remark before he returned to bland cheer. "Keep your chin up. Make us proud."  
  
"We already are," asserted Fiorella.  
  
Orélie smiled, affecting nonchalance, at them both. "Arrivederci. Voi amo. (Goodbye. I love you.)" Antonio graciously helped his charge into the balloon basket, where she turned to face the wind.  
  
"Prepare for liftoff!" the ballooneer shouted. Still waving, M. and Mme. Jaques backed away, Marc struggling in his father's arms. Orélie concentrated on the wicker of the basket as the balloon began to ascend, unable to deal with seeing her parents' continued waving. One good-bye was more than enough.  
  
--  
  
Here we go, off to my newest personal nightmare. It's a good thing I like flying; one more fear would be the last thing I need. The scenery is pretty; I can see everything spread out down there, like Papa's magical map except this is three-dimensional. Dollhouses and broccoli forests and rivers of spilt water and tiny Muggle cars and, oh, some horses in a field. I wish Antonio would let me stay there with the horses, but I suppose he'd be fired for that.  
  
I'm glad the wind is so loud; it makes talking unnecessary and I just couldn't handle talking to Antonio now. Not that he isn't nice; I guess it's lucky that I didn't get stuck with some grouch. Not to mention he's living proof that students have made it through Stella Di Mattina Academy and come out in one piece, though I can't be sure of his sanity yet.  
  
This is really very nice, the wind blowing in my face and everything. My knot's come undone; I should have had Maman do it - I won't think about Maman. I'll just focus on how lovely this is, riding in a balloon high above everything with the wind whistling and clouds dissolving into mist whenever we come near, as if they were afraid of us. I don't think I'd mind so much if I were supposed to spend the next few months in this balloon. I could just… keep looking at things, that's all…  
  
--  
  
Orélie quietly deactivated her Reminisce, which she used to record anything she considered a landmark in her life. She intended to gather this information for use in the distant future when she would write her autobiography. Not egotistical enough to believe that the general public would desire to read her memoirs, she used the promise of this volume as justification for living her life to the fullest - carpe diem, so to speak.  
  
"Signorina!" Antonio shouted over the noise. Orélie dragged her eyes away from the scenery to face her guide as the wind whipped her hair across the side of her face. "We're going down to pick up another student. D'accordo (okay)?"  
  
"D'accordo!" Orélie called back, tightening her grip on the side of the basket. Another student, a potential friend or more likely enemy. She began piling her valises against the side of the basket in preparation for the new arrival; her ears suddenly felt full as the air pressure rapidly decreased. Warily she eyed the swiftly approaching trees, houses, rivers and tiny Muggle cars, barely noticing the balloon put up its Invisibility Shield (Aveuglian Shields™ - protection you can rely on!). Orélie's ears went wild as the balloon touched down in an apparently deserted meadow.  
  
Deserted, that is, except for a teenage girl with a large knapsack. "Rosina!" Antonio shouted, deactivating the Invisibility Shield. "Ciao!" The girl - Rosina - picked up her knapsack and hurried toward the balloon. With a grunt, she hefted her knapsack over the side of the basket and hopped in after it. Orélie squashed her valises more tightly together to make room.  
  
"Grazie (thank you)," Rosina grinned. She was a limber-looking girl, perhaps fifteen years old, with olive skin, dark green eyes and sun-bleached brown hair. "Are you new to Stella Di Mattina? I've never seen you before, but you look older than the first-years."  
  
"Si," replied Orélie with a nod of her head that somehow gave the impression of a curtsey. "I'm Orélie Jacques; I transferred from Beauxbatons." Rosina replied with a nod - good, thought Orélie, she doesn't want to interrogate or insult me - and knelt to rummage in her knapsack as Antonio prepared the balloon for ascent.  
  
"Straight to Stella Di Mattina now," he assured the two students confidently. Orélie made a small noise of acknowledgement; Rosina pulled a sandwich from her bag and tore into it. "Going up!" Antonio warned. Orélie leaned against the side of the basket, thankful that her ears were already messed up and could suffer no more for the remainder of the trip.  
  
Once the balloon was safely in the air and invisible, Rosina finished her sandwich and tossed the remains over the side of the basket. Orélie widened her eyes at this blatant littering but said nothing; all of her energy was spent on worrying about Stella Di Mattina. Antonio started to hum vacantly as he operated the balloon's controls; Rosina offered a sandwich to Orélie, who politely declined and scrunched against the side of the basket. She thought she noticed Rosina roll her eyes in disgust or bemusement, but decided to give the older girl the benefit of the doubt.  
  
--  
  
Balloon trip, part two. I expect we're in Italy now. Would Maman and Papa have sent me to Stella Di Mattina if I didn't speak Italian? I shouldn't be looking a gift horse in the mouth; it's bound to be better than Beauxbatons. Could anything be worse? Maybe Durmstrang; they probably use Dark spells on each other when they get in fights.  
  
I wonder if Rosina is offended because I didn't take her sandwich. Papa always said never to refuse a glass of wine in Spain (but what if you're a recovered alcoholic?), but he never said anything about sandwiches in Italy. She probably thinks I'm a chic, snobby French girl because of my fancy robes and such; we probably weren't expected to dress up for the first day of school. What a way to make a good impression on everyone. I knew this enterprise was doomed from the start. I don't care what Maman and Papa say; this is going to be Beauxbatons all over again and I'm going to be a friendless outcast who gets hexed in the hallways.  
  
--  
  
Orélie dared a glance at her two companions. Antonio was gazing vaguely into the distance, and Rosina had wedged a pillow between her head and the side of the basket and was now snoring peacefully. It was almost as good as being alone. Inhaling deeply to make the most of the thin air, she let her eyelids flutter closed. The world within her lids was a mass of strange colors and flowing shapes, nature's version of an impressionist painting.  
  
"Signorina Fuerto?" Antonio made as if to poke Rosina's shoulder but thought better of it. He turned toward the less volatile-looking Orélie. "Signorina Jacques?" Orélie obligingly opened her eyes, then squinted against the sun with a smile of acknowledgement. "We're almost there," the young wizard continued. "If you look that way--" he pointed into the distance "you can see the school."  
  
"I'll take a look," Orélie acquiesced and pulled herself to her feet. It was late afternoon, and the sunlight was beginning to take on the ethereal quality of sunset. She let her gaze follow Antonio's gesture, where she could see a large building. Nobody could deny that it was pretty; its faintly Roman architecture was softened by the peach stone of its walls and columns. Straining her eyes, Orélie could make out smalls riots of color surrounding the edifice; those, she assumed, were the gardens. The scene grew larger, more detailed, closer, by the second. Orélie's stomach began to twist.  
  
--  
  
It really is pleasant-looking - not impressive like Beauxbatons, but they're probably going for the "home-away-from-home" look. Oh, Rosina's waking up. Maybe if I don't look at her she won't notice me. I'll just keep my eyes on the school. It's almost shining in this light, or maybe its some sort of magical effect like in the Muggle movies Maman talks about. Closer and closer… I can see the light reflecting off windows now. Oh, some of them are shaped like diamonds. Now if only there were a few made out of stained glass; that would be really gorgeous.  
  
There's something green in the air behind the school, too big to be a bird. I think it's another balloon. Yes, I can see it better now, and there's a red one by the grove of trees - what kind are they? Pine, I think. Why does Antonio have to start chattering now? He was so nice and quiet during the trip. Ah, the Mediterranean. Well, I suppose I'm glad he pointed it out. It's so incredible, blue-green and glittering; I can almost smell the salt. I'm going to love those trips to the beach they talked about in the brochure. What am I saying? How can I love anything about school?  
  
We're landing. Oh ciel, we're landing.  
  
--  



	2. Face in the Mirror

Glass Houses, Part Two  
  
Author's Note: Here's what I like to call "the good part." In case it's unclear, which it might be, there are four Houses - Gold, Silver, Wood and Glass. No prizes for which one Orélie ends up in. Again, I've tried to translate French and Italian words. Thank you very much to everyone who reviewed Part One. The title of this chapter comes from the line "Look at your face in the mirror; I am there inside" from Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera.  
  
Disclaimer: Same as last time; the wizarding world and all concepts therein belong to JKR; Stella di Mattina and all of the characters are mine. Without further ado...  
  
  
The balloon touched down in a field of unruly grass, surrounded by other balloons of all sizes and colors. Children and teenagers, as varied as their transportation, were talking laughing shouting, finding old friends and setting forth down the wide stone-paved path that led to Stella Di Mattina Academy. Orélie swallowed the old terror and concentrated hard on being inconspicuous, an unlikely prospect as most of the other students were dressed casually.  
  
Rosina took barely a minute to gather her things. After tossing her knapsack over her shoulder, she shook Antonio's hand warmly. "Ciao, Antonio," she declared. Then, almost as an afterthought, she turned to Orélie. "Benvenuto (welcome), Orélie." Her face remained neutral, but her eyes gave a slight smile as she hurried away to catch up with another group of students, leaving Orélie with a faint sense of hope.  
  
"I'd better go," she told Antonio softly. "Arrivederci." Before the ballooner could reply, Orélie had grabbed two of her valises with one hand and the remainder in the other and directed herself toward the path to Stella di Mattina.  
  
For a few minutes, she forgot to be afraid. The distractions of the school and grounds were too numerous. They were evident, as a matter of fact, as soon as Orélie's synthetic brown shoes touched the path. Each of the polished-shiny stones, a muted rainbow, produced a small chiming sound when stepped on: not loud enough to be heard in a crowd, but easy to notice when walking alone.  
  
Orélie, like Kipling's cat, always walked alone.  
  
The haze of flowers surrounding the building seemed to flourish rather than wilt in the salt-infused air. They weren't coordinated by color or species, as were those of Fiorella; instead they grew in haphazard fashion - snapdragons interspersed with delphiniums, violets peeking from behind irises. By focusing on the flowers enough, one could almost forget the building they framed so neatly, a small but welcome gift from the architect.  
  
The walk ended all too quickly at the stained wooden double doors of the school. It was impossible to even slow down in the rush of students entering. One very short boy was walking with such force that he almost knocked Orélie onto the nondescriptly beige carpet of the entryway. Unlike that of Beauxbatons, it led into a room that was not dark and mysterious but light and spacious with scattered chairs, coffee tables and window seats - an exchange of depth for affability. Most of the students funneled out of this room into several arched hallways. A middle-aged man and woman stood in the center of the room, occasionally shouting, "First years, please remain here!" Orélie stayed in the front room, having been told to follow the same procedure as the students in the first year.  
  
With the exception of a trickle of older students, Orélie and the first years were the only students left in the room after a few minutes had passed. The man and woman remained positioned in the middle of the room, trying to smile despite their stiffening legs. They were, according to the brochure, Headmaster and Headmistress Cappelino, founders of the school. Cecelia Cappelino, Transfiguration expert and author of guides for Muggle parents of magical children, wore her graying hair loose to her shoulders and still possessed a willowy build. Her husband Mario, a Crup trainer famous for the invention of magical dog biscuits, was more rotund and hid his hair with a wide-brimmed brown hat.  
  
The couple took it in turns to make their opening speech, composed mainly of psychobabble with a few nuggets of real insight. In flowery sentences they each described what they hoped for the future of the school and the pupils in it. Orélie reached into her pocket to feel the reassuring smoothness of her Reminisce.  
  
--  
  
Maman is right; if first impressions mean anything, they're nice. The building is friendly too. The brochure mentioned that it was designed by an English wizard using an old Roman ruin. Erik something. I like that it's not trying to intimidate us. Beauxbatons was always closing in on me when it thought I wasn't watching. Now if only Signor and Signora Cappelino weren't so long-winded; I suppose it comes from the position. Whoever had the idea that Heads of schools should make speeches deserves a nasty fate.  
  
I don't think I'm nervous anymore, now that I'm actually here and I can't back out. All that's left is Choosing my House and meeting the other students, which will be the painful part. What I wouldn't give to be selectively invisible. Oh no, Signor Cappelino just looked at me; could he tell I wasn't paying attention? No, he was talking about transfer students. What a relief. I'll sleep well tonight, if the other students don't put toads in my bed or something. They wouldn't be that awful on the first evening, would they? Oh, I forgot - I'm talking about teenage wizards and witches. No deed is too low.  
  
Finally, they're talking about the Choosing. Follow them to the mirrors and choose the future we like best - sounds simple enough. Oh dear, this hallway seems to have been built by Beauxbatons standards: cramped and dim, not to mention dead-ending into a curtain. And of course, with my luck, transfer students go last. Such exquisite torture they've planned. I can't stand this hallway; I hope it isn't part of my daily routine. There goes the first kid. I should watch this. Behind the curtain: okay, no surprise there. Now what? How can Signora Cappelino be waiting open-mouthed like that, and how can Signor be knotting his fingers so anxiously? Nothing's happening.  
  
Waiting and waiting… this is absolute horror. Oh! I think that flash of light signaled the end of the Choosing for that little boy. Will he be changed behind that curtain? Let's see - he's gone! And they're just sending the next child in, no comforting statements or anything. How many more are there? I don't know if I can take this. No, that's silly; I can always take what life dishes out to me. This is the epitome of dullness though. I'd bet myself a Sickle that I fall asleep.  
  
--  
  
She didn't - bet herself or fall asleep. From Didier Conveglio to Luciana Yvotte, Orélie watched and waited. At last, after eons of eternity, the room was emptied except for three people: Cecelia Cappelino, Mario Cappelino and Orélie.  
  
"Your turn, piccola (little one)," Signora Cappelino encouraged kindly. Orélie stood silently and, rejecting assistance, opened the curtain.  
  
--  
  
What's beyond the curtain?  
  
It's a dead end after all. This place is too small to really be called a room. Just a cubicle of sorts with four oval mirrors on the back wall, the mirrors of my possible destinies. Only possible, they repeated over and over, and they're not to blame if it doesn't work out. Everyone these days is afraid of being sued.  
  
All I have to do is look in each mirror and choose the future I like best. Simple. If I could just bring myself to look… yes, I will look, whether I like it or not. I'll look straight into this one with the gold rim, gateway to the House of Gold.  
  
Oh… there I am. Except it isn't really me; I'm older, at least twenty, and graceful and wearing jade-green robes, and I'm pretty - not innocent-young-girl pretty like I am now, but sophisticated and intelligent. Where am I? Crystal glasses full of bubbly liquid, sparkling chandelier, people in fancy robes, flawless wallpaper. Some sort of party at an opulent manor, probably Snobville but I don't seem to mind. No, I'm chatting and laughing and everyone wants to say something to me. I have that look on my face as if I'm saying something witty, and if the other people in the mirror are any indication, I'm being quite witty indeed. Do I want this? Look in every mirror before making my decision. All right, I'll try to tear my gaze away - I know I can.  
  
That wasn't so hard. I can still feel the bright room and the laughter. So that's Gold. Here's Silver; let's see…  
  
Me on a broomstick? But I'm afraid of heights… apparently Mirror-Me isn't. She's flying, through the night sky no less, and laughing softly with her hair blowing all around her face. Her eyes are sparkling, too, and her teeth are glinting; the sharpness seems right on her. I can hardly breathe watching those dives she's doing. She's going to fall - no! I'm going to die! Oh, no, she saved us somehow. There are tiny people down on the ground, gesturing wildly - are they Muggles? Are we breaking the law? Just look at that swerve; she's - I'm? - so brave. I can't even tell where we are. Why are the stars so much brighter there? I could almost reach in and grab one - but no, they said not to touch the mirrors unless you choose them. On to the next.  
  
This one is dark reddish Wood; it looks soft and smooth. I'm not so scared of this one. I would stroke the wood, but that probably counts as touching the mirror. And inside…  
  
That's the biggest tree I've ever seen. It completely dwarfs me, sitting beneath it, almost blending into the bark in brown velvet robes. It's autumn, I think, from those gorgeous yellow leaves, and from the light I'd say late afternoon. My eyes are closed, but I don't think I'm asleep; I'm smiling and I never smile in my sleep. What's that motion? A squirrel, coming toward me, and there's a rabbit, and a bunch of birds coming out from behind that branch. They don't look scared of me at all. A flash of red - a fox! But the rabbits aren't running. No, I'm definitely not asleep; my eyes are open now and I'm talking to the animals. Are they going to talk back? No, that's silly, but this whole scene is straight out of a storybook. So nice and peaceful, and no other people to bother me. Maybe this is the one I want. There's one more mirror though, and I have to look in all of them.  
  
I'll be back, wood-framed mirror. Now, the last one, surrounded by smoky glass. Just a quick look and I can go back to the peaceful wood mirror.  
  
What a pretty room. All decorated in flowers, with pale green trimming and bamboo furniture. There's some sort of music playing - Bizet, I think - and there's me, humming along with it. Why am I wearing white? Maman says it's too pale for me, but I look fine in the mirror. I've gotten tanner, I think, so the white lacy robes are all right. My hair is loose, just like I wear it now, except it's gotten longer and ripplier. That's not what's different about me though. I can't quite tell what it is, but I have a hunch that it's something in my face. My eyes don't look quite so large, and my smile is different. I'm not quite sure what I'm doing - taking something out of a bag? Oh, I see; I'm hanging a garland of flowers on the wall. Mirror-Me has good taste. Now I'm opening the translucent curtains.   
  
Where is this place? The window looks out on a road… oh, it's so nice, quaint and old-fashioned, with wrought iron streetlamps. The trees have little blossoms on them, so it's spring, and there's a water fountain outside - I could swear I smell the water. Mirror-Me is laughing at something below, and someone outside is laughing too. What a happy, bubbling laugh I have, not nervous like now. The person outside is handing something to Mirror-Me, something thin and sparkling. What is it? I have to know; whatever it is, it's making me smile like I've never smiled before, at the object and the person outside. This is what I need, that smile and that room and that world. If the House of Glass can bring me there, I'll endure whatever happens along the way. I'll just reach in… maybe I can get there somehow…  
  
--  



	3. Turn the Tide

Glass Houses, Part Three  
  
Author's Notes: This is, in my opinion, the best-written chapter so far because I get to do what I do best: dialogue. Title comes from the line "Been on the losing side/ This time I'll turn the tide" from a song called "Making My Way (Any Way that I Can)." The line "L'ombre a fermée les yeux du jour" is from a song called "Ouvre Ton Coeur" by Georges Bizet, proposed as an aria for Carmen but rejected in favor of the "Habanera." As before, I've tried to translate any bits of foreign languages that pop up. Galina is a Russian form of Helen; Orélie is a French form of Aurelia.  
  
Disclaimer: The wizarding world and all related concepts belong to JKR; Stella di Mattina and all characters are mine.  
  
  
  
The space beyond the curtain was briefly filled with a blaze of light. Signor Cappelino smiled at his wife. "That's the last of them," he stated with relief.  
  
"I hope they chose wisely," Cecelia worried, twisting a lock of her gray hair. "Young people these days are so impetuous."  
  
"There are no wise or unwise decisions," Mario philosophized, "Nor good, nor bad ones. There is only what was. We can't change the past, only the future." On a more pragmatic note he added "Come now; Leonora wanted to discuss a lesson plan."  
  
--  
  
Orélie shivered slightly as she realized that she had been transported. Her new surroundings, a medium-sized room, were a bright contrast to the dim hallway of the four mirrors. This room (Glass House's Social Hall, according to the brochure) had six walls, three of which were composed mainly of pristine windows. The other walls contained labeled doorways - "Girls' Hallway One," "Girls' Hallway Two," "Girls' Hallway Three," "Boys' Hallway One," "Boys' Hallway Two," and, obviously, "Boys' Hallway Three." Wallpaper in pastel tessellations filled in the blank spots. In one corner was a glowing aquarium in which various fish performed an aquatic dance.  
  
Between the diamond-paned windows, unlit candles waited in tiny alcoves. Chairs and cushions of dark green were positioned throughout the room, matching low tables, which mostly supported books. It was in these chairs, on these cushions and at these tables that the students were seated. An amalgamous mix, most of them had one thing in common: they were watching Orélie with expressions of mild curiosity.  
  
Despite the fact that the Social Hall was sun-warmed, Orélie continued to shiver, staring blankly at the faceless crowd. Her gaze turned to her hands; on one finger of her left she spied a ring. On closer examination, this proved to be made of indigo glass. Delicate letters were etched into it, spelling "Orélie."  
  
"It's your ring," explained a gently familiar voice. A boy, tall compared to Orélie but in reality of average height, separated himself from the amorphous group. Stepping forward, he extended his own hand to display a similar ring of pale blue glass. "Everyone has one, made out of the material their house is named for. They work as the password to the House areas, and they have their owners' names on them. See?" He turned his hand, causing the letters to flash in the light. Orélie caught a quick glimpse.  
  
"Soh-mair-sette?" she tried hesitantly, attempting to pronounce the unfamiliar name. She glanced up to gauge her success by the boy's face, tan beneath dark brown hair.  
  
"Somerset," he corrected with a smile, eyes the same shade as his ring glinting. "It's British. Are you Italian?"  
  
Orélie shook her head slightly. "French. I transferred from Beauxbatons; I'm in the third year. My name is Orélie." She smiled tentatively, hoping against hope that her new acquaintance wouldn't end up betraying her.  
  
"Orélie," Somerset repeated carefully, and then grinned. "I think it's easier to pronounce French from English than vice versa."  
  
"No way," protested Orélie, flipping a lock of hair. "Try this: 'L'ombre a fermée les yeux du jour' ('The shadow has closed the eyes of the day')."  
  
"Lumbra ah firmay lays yous doo jor," parroted Somerset sheepishly. "No?"  
  
"No," Orélie agreed, laughing. "But not bad."  
  
"So what do you think of our lovely school thus far?" Somerset queried with the barest hint of irony, backing into a chair and gesturing for Orélie to join him at a nearby seat.  
  
"I like the architecture," replied Orélie honestly as she perched elegantly on a stool. "The whole place seems very pleasant. I don't think I buy into the whole 'progressive' thing, though."  
  
"Very few of us do," was Somerset's wry rejoinder. "I think adults are more susceptible to it. It has its perks though; no uniforms, for instance." He waved his hand to indicate Orélie's robes. "Nice color."  
  
"My ring apparently thought so," Orélie agreed, glancing again at her hand. "For some reason everyone thinks I need to be color-coordinated." Somerset laughed and Orélie clasped her hands together happily; it was such a change to make someone laugh on purpose instead of by doing something humiliating.  
  
"I have no such problem." Somerset gestured toward his own robes, navy blue but faded in patches. Orélie winced at the juxtaposition of her own frivolously fancy clothes and the shabby ones of her new friend.  
  
"They're not really very noticeable," she lied in an attempt to nip any conflicts in the bud. Somerset leaned forward, frowning slightly, and Orélie jerked back.  
  
"Listen," Somerset began, "Why do you look so scared? I'm not angry, but let's get one thing clear. I don't like insincerity." Orélie's eyes widened in confusion. "The world is full of people saying things they don't mean, trying to be someone they're not," he clarified. Twirling his ring on his finger, he continued, "I don't want to have to do that to others, and I don't want others to do it to me."  
  
Orélie nodded to signal comprehension. "So what does this boil down to?" she queried with a blink.  
  
"Say what you mean to me, be honest, and I'll reciprocate. Don't try to humor me or spare my feelings." Somerset tilted his head in thought. "I think you're above that," he finished meditatively.  
  
"I hope so," replied Orélie, tilting her own head. "I'll do my best, and," she continued with a half-joking grin, "You won't try to dictate any of my other behavior?"  
  
"D'accordo," Somerset agreed with a smile. "I don't think I'd get very far."  
  
"Somer," a nondescript blond boy deadpanned, "Are you going to flirt until dinner or can we talk business?"  
  
"We're not flirting!" protested Orélie, immediately on the defensive.  
  
"I'm not hiring you," Somerset growled with the air of one who has repeated something too many times. "Take your business and your nose somewhere else." Seemingly un-offended, the new boy shrugged and headed to another group of students.  
  
"Business?" Orélie enquired.  
  
"He's a spy. His name's Nardo," explained Somerset with a hint of disgust. "When his cash flow is slowing, he gets in everyone's face."  
  
Orélie digested this information. "I see. Isn't that illegal?"  
  
Somerset nodded nonchalantly. "It's also very useful."  
  
"Touché," Orélie chuckled as the rest of the room's occupants rose from their seats and started toward an unlabeled door. "Where are they all going?"  
  
"Dinner," replied Somerset succinctly as he stood. "Come on, there might be alfredo sauce."  
  
--  
  
I hope the dining hall isn't far. I'm not tired, not physically anyway, but I'm not sure how much more novelty I can take. Whatever happened to my luggage? With my luck this whole school will turn out to be a criminal institution for stealing our valises. All right, not the most plausible theory, but stranger things can happen. I'd better hurry to catch up to Somerset; he walks really fast. Still can't believe I met him. He's so friendly and, well, I don't know, trustworthy.  
  
Trustworthy? That's a strange word coming from me. You're not supposed to trust other students; you can have uneasy alliances, and you can even like them, but you can't trust them. It's just not worth it. I'd better focus hard on not letting my guard down.  
  
This place is so noisy. I think it's the acoustics of the marble in this hallway. It's worse than when Marc breaks a vase and Maman and Papa yell at him in sync. If I listen hard enough I can hear snippets of individual conversations - "We'd never get away with that!" "He really said that?" "And, to top it all off, she didn't give it back!" "Ew, it was so gross." "I took a picture; I'll show you after dinner."  
  
Now we've joined up with students from the other Houses, or at least I think so because there definitely weren't this many people in the Social Hall. I see a room up ahead. Please be the dining hall. Yes, it is, or at least it has tables. Hey, where's Somerset? There he is. I'd better be careful or I'll lose him.  
  
--  
  
The dining hall was an enormous room of swirled green and white marble where the footsteps of numerous children echoed and reverberated. Lit by tiers of candles against the walls, the corners were the brightest spots in the room instead of the darkest as in most chambers. In each corner stood a large table - a silver square, a gold rectangle, a wooden circle and a glass oval, all surrounded by metal chairs of various bright colors. Sundry banners, carvings, tapestries and mosaics adorned the walls, most bearing the same image: a blue-white star against a background colored like a sunrise, presumably the emblem of Stella di Mattina. Despite the constant traffic, the tiled-marble floor sparkled immaculate.  
  
Orélie wove through the crowd to stand by Somerset's shoulder. "The glass table is ours, right?" she queried, tilting her head to make eye contact. Somerset nodded absently and continued walking toward the table, Orélie by his side.  
  
"You know," Somerset considered, stopping to turn to Orélie, "You should probably sit with some of the third years, try to get to know them." Orélie looked up with frightened eyes, bit her lower lip in uncertainty. "They're really not that bad," the boy assured her. "Besides, it's not like you're universally hated."  
  
Exhaling through her nose, Orélie replied "Not yet, anyway." Before Somerset could request details, Orélie continued, "So where are they sitting?"  
  
Somerset gestured to a few young teenagers. "Over there." Worriedly he eyed Orélie's look of grim martyrdom. "You think you'll be all right?" His critical gaze softened. "If you're really that scared…"  
  
"Scared?" Orélie scoffed. "I might be nervous, but I'm no coward. I just spaced out for a minute there." Somerset scowled and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "honesty." "Oh, fine, I'm terrified," Orélie admitted. "Break down all my defenses, why don't you? I'm going to meet them anyway, though, so don't worry unless I pass out in the middle of dinner. I'll see you later, d'accordo?"  
  
Somerset blinked a few times. "D'accordo," he agreed with a smile of what might have been admiration.  
  
--  
  
Orélie slid into an empty seat beside a third-year girl with a heart-shaped face and light brown hair braided in coils. The unnamed girl was in deep conversation with another third year, an olive-skinned boy with heavily gelled hair and black-rimmed oval glasses. The two were apparently arguing over something and too busy to notice a newcomer. Instead, Orélie found her shoulder tapped by another girl, copper-haired and bronze-tanned with blue smoke eyes.  
  
"Could you pass the tomatoes?" requested the redhead. Orélie, who had steeled herself for inquisition, nodded in relief and reached past the olive oil for the platter of tomatoes.  
  
"Here they are." Orélie proffered the porcelain dish to the other girl, who recoiled.  
  
"There's something on your sleeve!" she cried in horror, pushing her chair, which squeaked, further away. Orélie looked down to see that her silken sleeve was dripping with olive oil.  
  
"Oh honestly," snapped the heart-faced girl with a look of disgust, "You'd think it was poison." She whipped a cloth napkin from the table and attempted to dredge the oil from Orélie's sleeve. "Don't worry; I think I can get it off." She only succeeded in spreading the stain, but Orélie didn't mind. Robes appeared in her closet as if by magic; friendly faces were far fewer.  
  
"Thanks," Orélie told her helper fervently. "Here, have my napkin since yours is all oily now."  
  
"No problem," replied the brunette with a wave of her hand. "There're plenty of extras. And," she finished with a significant look at the copper-locked girl, "It's only olive oil."  
  
"Sorry," added the intended girl, flushing a darker bronze. "My parents would kill me if I got anything on my robes. I'm Carmela; are you the new transfer student?"  
  
Orélie nodded slowly. "Si; I'm Orélie from Beauxbatons."  
  
"One of the big schools, hmm?" mused the girl with braids. "I'm Galina Mitzanova. I would've gone to Durmstrang if I hadn't gone here instead; no way were my parents going to send me there." She took a long sip from a glass of murky liquid. "You should get something to eat. There's pasta."  
  
"Say no more," grinned Orélie as she helped herself, more carefully this time. "Pasta and I get along very nicely."  
  
"We've got all kinds of drinks, too," Galina continued. "Blueberry soda, raspberry soda--"  
  
"Just don't tell her what you're drinking or she'll lose her appetite," interjected the gel-haired boy. "Not to mention the rest of us."  
  
"I'd have to agree with Luis on that one," confessed Carmela. "I don't know how you keep that stuff down."  
  
"Practice," Galina beamed, "And willpower."  
  
--  



	4. Living in Twilight

Glass Houses, Part Four  
  
Author's notes: More dialogue here, as well as a bit of character development and several angsty Orélie monologues. Title is a line from a random song on the radio; I don't even know what it's called. I'm going for a theme with song lines, in case you hadn't guessed. Enjoy.  
  
  
By the time Orélie had nearly cleared her plate, the Headmaster and Headmistress entered the room through a door labeled "Staff Dining." Moving gracefully between the Gold and Wood tables, Signora and then her husband, they took the middle of the room.  
  
"Welcome to the beginning of what I hope will be another exciting year at Stella di Mattina," Cecelia began with an almost infectious smile. "I extend further welcome to those among us for the first time…"  
  
"Are they going to say anything important or are they just exercising their lungs?" muttered Orélie to Galina.  
  
"Once in a while they say something mildly interesting, but don't hold your breath. It's easier just to watch everyone else's reactions; if somebody gasps it's a safe bet that the Heads announced something." Galina poured some more blueberry soda into her glass, then poked Luis. "Pass me the lemon soda, would you?"  
  
Luis relinquished the lemon soda with reluctance. "You do know how disgusting your concoctions are," he stated hopefully.  
  
"I was a bartender in a past life," Galina replied with a shrug. "Is there any of that fizzy American stuff left?"  
  
Carmela turned sharply, her bronze face tinted with verdigris. "You're making me sick!" she hissed.  
  
"It's better than the time with the coffee and the coconut milk," Luis recollected with a morbid mien. This appeared to be the last straw for Carmela, who pressed a napkin to her face and gripped the side of her chair.  
  
"Povera ragazza (poor girl)," Galina sympathized. "I think she ate something that disagreed with her… should've known there was something odd about those tomatoes…"  
  
"Is this what Signora Cappelino meant by 'an exciting year'?" inquired Orélie with a roll of her amber eyes. Craning her neck, she spotted Somerset attempting to ward off Nardo at the other end of the table and grinned at her first friend.  
  
"It gets better," Luis assured her. "Last year there was a thunderstorm and a tree fell right in front of the entrance. All of the professors had to use some kind of charm to get it out of the way."  
  
"It's not really that bad," Galina contradicted. "At least it's not monotonous."  
  
"Fallen trees have always been a great source of tedium relief," Orélie agreed. "Luis, would you pass the pizzelles?"  
  
"Shh!" A sudden hiss from Galina cut through the chatter. Dark eyes wide, she switched seats to an empty chair on the other side of Carmela. "There he is!"  
  
"There who is?" Orélie squirmed to see what enraptured Galina so, but nothing stood out from the scene.  
  
"Some fellow she's been mooning over," explained Luis with a look of disgust. "She won't tell us who he is."  
  
"Give her a break," retorted Carmela, apparently recovered, in Galina's defense. "She's liked him - whoever he is - since last year."  
  
"How do you know it's even the same one?" Luis hinted darkly. "For all we know it could be a different boy each week!"  
  
"Don't be silly," scolded Carmela, resting her chin on her fist. In mock contemplation, she raised one eyebrow. "Unless… could you be - jealous?"  
  
"Yeah, right!" Luis scoffed and ran a hand through his hair to check the gel concentration. "No offense, but I don't go for girls who make disgusting drink mixtures."  
  
"Good thing too," interjected Galina, who had apparently lost sight of her idol. "I'd have to reject you; I don't go for boys who spend an hour each day gelling their hair."  
  
Luis sniffed, wiping his fingers on a napkin. "You're just resentful because it makes your hair look sloppy." The three girls burst out laughing. "Well, it's true," Luis reiterated.  
  
"We're not questioning your veracity," Orélie soothed. "It's just that when you sniff like that, you look like one of those fastidious, ultra-conservative types."  
  
Galina yawned widely, drawing a scowl from Signor Cappelino, which she tacitly ignored. A moment later, the Headmaster himself let loose an ample yawn, followed by his wife. "Works every time," Galina remarked softly.  
  
"Well," Signor Cappelino raised his volume, then yawned again. "It would seem that we're all tired. Off to your dorms, then."  
  
"Your valises should be in your rooms," Signora Cappelino added. "Again, best wishes for the year."  
  
With a chorus of screeches, the hundred or so students in the room pushed their chairs from their tables and stood, taking last bites of dessert and sips of beverage. More than one pupil could be spotted bundling away biscotti in paper napkins for snacking later. Carmela glanced longingly at a crostada, unable to transport the ice cream, as the Glass third-years got to their feet.  
  
"That was some trick," Orélie told Galina admiringly.  
  
"Yeah," the brunette agreed. "Too bad it only works at night."  
  
Through a gap in the crowd, Orélie spied Somerset helping a younger boy who had tripped over one of the chairs. "I'll see you later, d'accordo?" she addressed her classmates, and darted away before they could answer.  
  
"D'accordo," Carmela replied, too late.  
  
--  
  
Somerset smiled as Orélie approached, and it was difficult for her to restrain a rush of gladness. Someone wanted to see her, more than merely tolerating her presence. The younger boy who had tripped over his chair scuttled toward a few other students up ahead. "So," Somerset began, picking his way over a fallen fork, "How was your foray into the life of third-years? You seemed to get along well with them."  
  
"Were you watching?" Orélie asked in amusement. She bumped into a badly aligned chair and staggered before regaining her balance with Somerset watching in concern.  
  
"What?" Somerset blinked as if clearing his mind. "Yes, I was watching. You were so nervous about it that I thought something might go wrong."  
  
Orélie nodded, accepting the answer. "Just as long as you weren't hoping to be entertained by my mishaps. What year are you in, anyway?"  
  
"Fourth," was the boy's reply as he ducked into a small corridor.  
  
"This isn't the way we came," Orélie observed, squinting suspiciously at several other students further along the hall.  
  
"It leads to the secret chamber where we buy and sell Dark Magic," Somerset explained. "Quit looking at me like that; did you think I was serious? It's a shortcut to the Glass area."  
  
Orélie turned her "like that" gaze from Somerset to the floor. "Oh," she replied for lack of a better response, flushing in mortification. "Well, you know, back at Beauxbatons a few kids did, sell Dark Arts stuff I mean."  
  
"I'm sure a few kids here do as well," acknowledged Somerset as they reached a dead end. He held up his left hand in the "I come in peace" pose and walked through the wall. Orélie gulped and imitated the position, walking hesitantly into the stone pattern. It didn't let her through, though thanks to her slow movement the impact was not painful.  
  
Beginning to panic, she clenched her right hand and rapped sharply at the wall, hoping to attract attention from those on the other side. The wall seemed to turn to smoke, and the momentum of the rapping motion pulled Orélie through to tumble onto the violet-blue carpet of Glass Social Hall.  
  
"Are you all right?" Somerset asked, providing a welcome distraction from the stares of other students.  
  
"I'm fine." Orélie got to her feet as quickly as possible. "Stupid wall wouldn't let me in until I punched it."  
  
"That's strange," mused Somerset, tapping a finger against the side of his face. "Did you--?"  
  
"Yes," Orélie interrupted, going into the "I come in peace" stance exactly as she had in the hallway. "Didn't work."  
  
Somerset nodded in satisfaction. "That would be the problem." He held his own left hand up, ring glinting. "My ring is on my left hand, but yours is on your right. The ring is the key, the password so to speak."  
  
"So…" Orélie switched her position so that her right hand was displayed. "Right?"  
  
"Right," Somerset agreed with a nod. "That'll get you through any entrance to here. Sorry I forgot to tell you about that."  
  
"No problem." Orélie emitted a falsely cheerful laugh. "If that's the least of my problems, I'm a lucky witch."  
  
Somerset raised a dark eyebrow. "Are you generally a person with many problems?"  
  
"Oh, loads of them." Dismissing the phantom troubles with a breezy wave of her hand, Orélie yawned.  
  
"You might want to get to sleep," Somerset advised. "Despite the numerous studies proving that teenagers are naturally nocturnal, the school isn't progressive enough to start later." With his right hand, he traced the 'S' on his ring.  
  
"I'm not tired," protested Orélie. "The yawn was a red herring."  
  
"Why do you insist on lying even when it's about something inconsequential?" Exasperated, Somerset sunk into a chair.  
  
"Ever consider that there's a purpose for lies?" Orélie countered, curling up on the floor.  
  
Somerset snorted softly. "Not on the subject of tiredness or lack thereof."  
  
"That's not the point." Orélie rested her chin in her hands, closed her eyes for a moment. After collecting her thoughts, she subjected Somerset again to her amber gaze. "When you tell someone that you're scared, or sad, or distracted, or even tired, you're showing weakness. It's like wearing a great big arrow that reads 'Look! Here's my Achilles heel; come attack me!'"  
  
"Who's going to attack you?" Somerset inquired skeptically. "This isn't the age of Voldemort."  
  
"Everyone's going to attack me," cried Orélie. "Or at least everyone with spare time and nothing to do. That's human nature. Ciel, what sort of supernatural protection keeps you so sheltered? I'd love to share your Patronus."  
  
"I don't have one," Somerset pointed out. "Haven't learned that spell yet. And, you know, I've talked about plenty of my weaknesses, and nobody's attacked me thus far."  
  
Orélie sighed slowly. "You're different."  
  
"How is that?" questioned Somerset curiously.  
  
"Just…" Orélie emitted a low growl of frustration. "I don't want to talk about it. You're right; I should go to sleep."  
  
"Buona notte (good night)," Somerset responded in a gentler voice. "Head for Girls' Hallway Two."  
  
Orélie unfolded her legs and stood with a final glance at the room. As per Somerset's instructions, she passed the now-lit candles in their alcoves, pushing the door to "Girls' Hallway Two" open. The hallway was papered in a cream-and-gray pattern vaguely reminiscent of stars, and polished stone tiled the floor. Small doors were, like almost every other door in the school, labeled: Orélie glimpsed "Laure," "Jeanette," "Lucia," "Carmela," "Teresa," "Galina," "Sophie," and finally "Orélie." With one hand, the girl turned her door's indigo glass knob, picking up her valises (which had been waiting by her door) with the other.  
  
--  
  
It's a tiny place, as I would expect - after all, there has to be enough space for every student. The furniture is nice, if a bit sparse. How many things are in here? Bed, with white scrolled headboard and periwinkle quilt; tall, shiny dresser made from some kind of wood (I guess the glass theme only extends so far); metal rack, designed to look like ivy, for cloaks and hats; and a mirror. It looks like the one from the Choosing - same shape, same glass frame. I doubt that it'll show my future though; not even worth looking.  
  
Oh fine, I guess it couldn't hurt to check. Pretty room on quaint little street? No, just my boring old face; wide-eyed, weak Orélie, looking in the mirror like the Lady of Chalot, waiting for something to break the spell. At least that was a realistic fairy tale; tragic endings are the norm in real life. Be happy for what you get: at least she left a gorgeous tapestry behind.  
  
Even if it isn't magic, the mirror looks nice against this strange shiny paint. Really, the whole room is nice, though I would prefer wall-to-wall carpeting to these little rugs that probably slide over the tiles and make you trip and break your leg. I'll have to keep a tally of my visits to the Infirmary. Perhaps I can break last year's record, though it'll depend on how often I'm hexed. Not to mention the number of falling trees, assuming those kids were even telling the truth. I'll have to check with Somerset.  
  
Somerset. How do I know he's not lying? There must be something suspicious about someone who insists on sincerity. He keeps trying to learn about my weak spots. Oh, these sheets are cold. I hope Véronique doesn't freeze. Somerset, though. He talked to me voluntarily. Sure, there was a time when I would have thought he was some sort of guardian angel, like you, Véronique. But it's only the guardians made of cloth who can be trusted.  
  
I can't sleep. I can't stop thinking. The sheets are too cold, the pillow too limp, the mattress too hard, and I could swear that mirror's watching me. I just can't stop thinking; too many memories, too many images. What am I going to do? If I stay in this room much longer I'll go insane. You stay here, Véronique; you're my protection but you're my weakness too. I'll be back soon.  
  
--  
  
The Glass Social Hall was dim and quiet. Only four of the candles burned, the others snuffed by a mysterious force. Ghostly in pale nightgown and loose hair, Orélie felt her way towards an armchair. She winced silently as her bare toe collided with a wooden stool, clenched her teeth together to keep from making a sound. Pausing to get her bearings, she leaned against the nearest wall. The candlelight threw her shadow, a grotesque exercise in hyperbole, upon the expanse of wallpaper. In counterpoint to the tremulous music of breath came a familiar voice.  
  
"I couldn't sleep my first night either," the voice soothed. "It's hard."  
  
"I'm not a wimp or anything," a second voice, quiet but energetic, replied earnestly. "It's just that I haven't been away from home much before."  
  
"There's nothing wrong with being frightened," stated the first voice - it was Somerset, of course - in a weary tone. "Courage isn't lack of fear, you know, but overcoming it. And," he continued pensively, "I think strength is not lack of weakness, but learning to face life despite it. What do you think, Orélie?"  
  
Orélie jerked in the murkiness, mirrored by her shadow, but recovered quickly. "I think," she responded, moving carefully toward Somerset and the new voice, "That this is rather an odd time for philosophical conversations." She squinted and stretched her hand out, searching for obstacles.  
  
"We're here," Somerset called quietly, "By the fish tank." Sure enough, the dim glow of the aquarium illuminated the blurred outlines of two figures. Orélie cautiously joined them on the floor, kneeling as her nightgown fell in folds around her knees. The second figure, she could see now, was a small pigtailed girl, no doubt a first year.  
  
"Hello," greeted the younger girl, clutching a quilt of undistinguishable color around her shoulders.  
  
"Orélie," Somerset began with a formal gesture, "Meet Atlantis. Atlantis, Orélie."  
  
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Orélie answered automatically with a nod of her head. "I hope the Insomniacs Club is accepting new members."  
  
"The more, the merrier," quipped Somerset with a small smile. "The first night generally has the biggest turnout." Atlantis watched the exchange with curious eyes.  
  
"The mirror was watching me," Orélie explained. "I just couldn't take it any more."  
  
"You should try hanging a piece of cloth over it," Atlantis piped up shyly.  
  
"Excellent idea," smiled Orélie in approval. "I never would've thought of it."  
  
Somerset added, "If that fails, you can always try pretending to be asleep. That'll bore the mirror into leaving you alone for sure." The girls laughed, Atlantis's face taking on an added glow. "Anyway," Somerset finished, "I really think we ought to try getting some sleep. Meeting dismissed." With an agility born of excellent night vision, he loped off toward "Boys' Hallway Two."  
  
"Isn't he great?" enthused Atlantis in a whisper.  
  
"Mm-hm," Orélie agreed absently.  
  
"Are the two of you, uh…?" Atlantis blushed and trailed off.  
  
"No," Orélie replied quickly, "We aren't. I just met him today."  
  
Atlantis looked relieved. "Oh, good. I mean, I know I don't have a chance - he's a fourth year! - but a girl can dream, right?"  
  
"Right," affirmed Orélie with a smile. "Dreams aren't rationed. I think I'm going to bed now," she finished with a yawn.  
  
"I will too," decided Atlantis. "Buona notte."  
  
--  
  
Why do I feel so betrayed, watching Somerset help Atlantis? I don't have a crush on him. After Pierre, I'd definitely recognize a crush - the one exquisite ray of blue light against the terrifying darkness, the pull of the moth toward the flame. But it isn't that, despite what everyone seems to assume.  
  
It's not like he's my property. Good grief, a few minutes ago I was apprehensive of him. I'm not expecting anyone to be put on earth for the sole purpose of helping me. As I told Véronique, I don't believe in guardian angels. I'm not that stupid, not anymore.  
  
But a girl can dream, right?  
  
No, I can't. I can't afford dreams now, especially not stupid, weak ones about not having to fight and beg and humiliate myself for everything. Everybody has to do that stuff, that's just how it is. Just how it is.  
  
--  



	5. How To Let Go

Glass Houses, Part Five  
  
Author's Notes: Long, rambling conversations here as well as some conflict and hints at why Orélie got along so badly at Beauxbatons - the other students didn't shun her for no reason, which will come up more in later chapters (by the end of the story, you'll probably be sick of it). No Galina, Luis or Carmela here, though they and some other students from Orélie's year will be featured in the next chapter.   
I briefly mention Internal Magic here, which will be explained in depth later but I'll give a quick synopsis now. In an online chat, JKR said that it was possible to do magic without a wand, but that it was "unfocused and uncontrolled" or something to that effect. For the purpose of this story, I'm saying that all magical beasts/beings have a certain amount of magic inside them, but until a recent breakthrough witches and wizards didn't know how to channel it. Thanks to this discovery (which was made about ten years prior to this story), this Internal Magic can now be used, though Stella di Mattina is the first school to teach it to children. Confused? It'll be cleared up later.  
Title source: "Maybe you could show me how to let go, lower my guard, learn to be free..." from the musical "Anyone can Whistle."   
  
Disclaimer: The wizarding world and all related concepts belong to JK Rwoling. Stela di Mattina, all characters and Internal Magic belong to me. "Anyone Can Whitsle" belongs (I think) to Stephen Sondheim.  
  
Aaaaaaah!  
  
Oh, ciel, what's that awful noise? Be still, my heart. What could it be? Some sort of alarm? Maybe there was a fire! I have to get out of the room; I could be burned alive… where's my bathrobe? There, now I'll just shove my shoes on… I can hear other people moving around in the hallway. They must be evacuating the building. My, they're calm; I don't hear anyone screaming.  
  
Véronique? Where is she? What a time for her to be lost! I can't leave her to be burned, though, I just can't - better that the Cappelinos should find my charred remains. She would never desert me; I can't abandon her. Véronique! There you are. Don't worry; I'll never leave you. Come on. I hope it's not too late.  
  
--  
  
Tucking Véronique under one arm, Orélie burst into the hallway, hair in a golden-brown cloud behind her. "Is there an emergency exit?" she demanded of the nearest student, a tall girl with curly hair piled atop her head.  
  
"Emergency exit?" The girl stared in confusion as other occupants of Girls' Hallway Two gathered. A few began to giggle behind polite hands. "I don't know what you mean… you aren't going to breakfast dressed like that, are you?"   
  
Orélie glanced wildly around at the other girls. All were fully dressed and appeared calm. "You mean there wasn't any fire?" A fresh burst of giggles exploded from the others. There was no sign of Galina or Carmela, only faceless Others. "What was that awful noise then?"  
  
"Awful noise?" The tall girl seemed incapable of speaking in anything other than questions. Then she, too, began to laugh as comprehension dawned on her face. "Oh, that was the wake-up bell!" Her laughter, bell-like and melodic, reached a crescendo. "Did you really think that was a fire alarm?" Shrewd eyes looked Orélie over again, pausing to take in Véronique.  
  
"Yes," replied Orélie in clipped tones. "I did. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to get dressed." Head held high, she about-faced and reentered her room. With one well-placed kick of her sensibly shod foot, she slammed the door shut in the face of nauseating giggles. The quiet of the tiny chamber was the most golden of silences.  
  
She gently set Véronique on her bed as she sighed deeply. "What a bunch of idiots," she muttered bitterly, pulling robes of pale green from her largest valise. Her constantly flexing fingers had pulled themselves into fists, which Orélie unclenched with a look of regret before switching clothes. The green robes made a pleasant swishing noise against the floor as Orélie uncovered her mirror and began brushing her hair. Once, twice, thrice… with each pull through the soft strands, Orélie exhaled slowly.  
  
Exiting the room for the second time, Orélie hurried along the now-empty hallway. "Late," she almost spat, narrowly avoiding catching her sleeve on the knob of the door marked "Jeanette." By the time she reached the Glass Social Hall she was practically jogging, one pale hand holding her robes as if they were skirts of a long dress. Like the hallway, the Social Hall was mercifully empty with the exception of Somerset, who reclined in an armchair.  
  
"Buon giorno," Orélie greeted her friend, refusing to make eye contact and in a tone that implied that it was not a good day at all. Somerset stood at Orélie's arrival and smiled wearily.  
  
"Ciao," he replied, moving so that his impenetrable eyes met Orélie's. "I heard," he added in response to the unasked question. "Sorry that happened."  
  
"It could have been worse," deadpanned Orélie. "The apocalypse could've chosen that moment to occur."  
  
Somerset began to lead the way to the Dining Hall. "Don't worry too much about it," he advised. "So many things happen over the course of the day; they'll probably forget all about it." Orélie only nodded and quickened her pace; Somerset merely lengthened his strides to catch up.  
  
They entered the Dining Hall in silence but for the sound of their footsteps, which was lost in the greater noise of the room anyway. It appeared even more impressive in the light of day, beams of sun streaming through high-set windows and casting trails of radiance on the tiled floor. Orélie and Somerset followed one of these shining paths to the Glass table, which glittered in the sunlight. "Shall I sit with the third years again?" Orélie asked in what was almost a monotone.  
  
Somerset looked at Orélie - at least, he cast his pale eyes at the spot where Orélie stood, though his gaze seemed to go through her. He blinked slowly, as if returning from a reverie. "If you'd like…" he paused for yet more contemplation, evidently not a morning person. "Or you could sit with me."  
  
"Well…" Orélie bit her lower lip and looked at her perpetual-motion fingers. "Do you have anyone else to sit with?" She drew her fingers across the translucent fabric of one trailing sleeve, affecting nonchalance.  
  
"No," replied Somerset brusquely, something akin to disappointment in his voice. "Here." He slid into a chair and pushed the one beside him away from the table. Orélie, equally subdued, seated herself and proceeded to pick at a pastry.  
  
"Hello there." Nardo, the spy boy, hovered on the other side of Somerset. "Do you, by any chance, need any spy work done? My prices are forty percent lower for a limited time." He widened his brown eyes - or were they murky blue? - in an obvious attempt to gain sympathy.  
  
"Go away," commanded Somerset with a scowl so menacing that Nardo backed off immediately, literally scooting backwards to find a chair in a move reminiscent of courtiers in the presence of royalty. Orélie raised one eyebrow but made no comment, instead looking furtively around the table.  
  
"Do you think those three over there are staring?" she enquired anxiously with a surreptitious gesture toward some older students. Somerset obligingly directed his scowl to the other end of the table, then shook his head. Orélie sighed softly and traced the pattern of flowers that ringed her plate. Only the approach of footsteps made her turn around to see the tall, curly-haired girl from the hallway.  
  
"Buon giorno," the girl greeted, putting one hand up to check her hair in a nervous motion. The other hand unconsciously smoothed her burgundy robes. She giggled for no apparent reason, eyes flitting from one direction to another. With a wide smile at Orélie, she began, "I'm so sorry about this morning. Are you and your--" (here she had to pause and muffle a giggle) "teddy bear all right?" She waited in anticipation, almost hunger, for a response - the vulture-esque look of a thrill-seeker.  
  
Orélie's clenched fist was almost tight enough to bend her fork. She looked up at the taller girl, eyelids lowered. "Véronique," she stated in a soft, menacing tone "is a seal, not a teddy bear." Behind her, she could hear Somerset shifting in his seat, but she focused all of her attention on staring the other girl down, amber-set pupils dilating in primal anger.  
  
The object of the stare found Orélie's wounded dignity hilarious, though she was unable to maintain eye contact. "Oh," she tittered, "Excuse me!"  
  
"Shut up, Silvia." The voice was Somerset's, but the difference from his usual polite demeanor was astounding. "You're making a very bad impression. Orélie will think that all the students of Stella di Mattina are petty and shallow, not just a select few."  
  
"There's no need to be nasty!" Silvia retorted with a toss of her head. "I was just asking a question."  
  
Somerset rolled his eyes, now a truly icy blue. "Don't play dumb. I'm a member of Glass House - I know all about seeing through people."  
  
"Now, if you don't mind," an acidic Orélie added, "Please leave us alone. I'm sure your gossipy friends are all waiting to know how your encounter went." Her pointy teeth suddenly seemed more prominent as well as sharper.  
  
Silvia's face flushed with rage. "Why you little…" she trailed off, as if no words were bad enough to describe the two others. She turned to Orélie. "I'll bet that attitude got you expelled from Beauxbatons, and it's not going to work here either." Turning on her heel, she flounced off to the other end of the table, where several girls of similar age were watching, wide-eyed. Orélie tilted her head to the side, immersed in a shark-infested sea of thought.  
  
"Sorry about the idiot invasion," Somerset sighed, twirling his fork so that beams of light bounced off of it. "They're more desperate than I thought."  
  
"Expelled?" Orélie repeated robotically, in total ignorance of Somerset's apology. "Is that what you heard, that I was expelled from Beauxbatons?" Far from being angry or hurt, her tone was dangerously dreamy.  
  
Somerset looked up sharply, forgotten fork clattering to his plate. "No, nobody told us that. I don't think even Silvia really believes it; she was just trying to get a reaction out of you. You know how these things go."  
  
"I know all too well," replied Orélie grimly. Now came the ire, the pain in her words. "But what happened at Beauxbatons wasn't my fault. It was the fault of people like Silvia." If looks could kill, Silvia (who was busily whispering to her friends and basking in their shock) would have been six feet under.  
  
"I never said it was your fault," Somerset reassured, returning to his standard benign mien. "If it's worth anything…" he closed his eyes for a moment and Orélie shuddered, unable to deal with seeing the closest thing she had to a protector looking so vulnerable. "I had a really rough first year."  
  
"Oh?" Orélie brushed an errant lock of hair from its position hanging dangerously near the iced pastry on her plate and then folded her hands neatly over her napkin, all attention on Somerset.  
  
"Yes," affirmed Somerset distantly. "You know I'm from England… well, there are students from all over Europe here, and a few from even further away, but my Italian wasn't very good and I had the most awful accent." He smiled, bittersweet, and leaned back in his chair. "So the others made fun of me for being British, and when I started spending my time alone to avoid them, they mocked me for that too."  
  
"A vicious cycle," Orélie agreed, covering her mouth to yawn. "And the more of an outcast you become, the more it's considered acceptable to pick on you, and the more they pick on you, the more you're an outcast." It was a chant, a mantra, devoid of anger or self-pity.  
  
Somerset shot a questioning glance. "I don't know if I ever got so far as to be considered an outcast," he mused. "I learned Italian quickly, and after a few months I just faded into the woodwork. They found other things to do, and left me in peace."  
  
"Mm." Orélie slashed at her pastry, causing berry compote to ooze out. "Why did your parents send you all the way here anyway?" The berries were blue, and they stained the pastry crust slowly.  
  
"That was another part of the problem." Heaving a sigh, Somerset began to fold and refold his napkin. "My parents were old friends of the Headmasters - don't ask me how they met - and they promised to send me to Stella di Mattina." He pulled a thread from the napkin's fraying edge. "So the Cappelinos have high expectations of me… I'm often the one they hold up as an example, their golden child. You can imagine how the others feel about that."  
  
"I can picture it easily," Orélie half-smiled. "But then, I've always had a vivid imagination."  
  
"As you proved to some of your peers this morning," Somerset pointed out. In anyone else, the statement would have angered Orélie, but it wasn't offensive in Somerset: he was laughing with her, not at her. "So don't let Silvia spoil your appetite," he continued with a look at the mangled pastry. "You'll need energy for lessons, and lunch isn't for a while."  
  
"I'm not hungry," Orélie objected crossly. "You can have it." After rolling up her sleeve, she slid the plate toward Somerset.  
  
"I don't want it." The fourth-year boy eyed the food with distaste. "Especially not after you've mashed it like that. Besides, I already ate." With one callused hand, he shoved the plate back.  
  
"I don't like mashed pastry either," protested Orélie, "And you're the one who cares." She grinned wickedly, a rare sight, and returned the plate to Somerset. An inverted game of tug-o'-war ensued, each trying to push the plate into the other's space. A few onlookers smiled, amused, as the game grew faster and rougher. At last, Orélie gave a final shove and the plate toppled straight onto Somerset's lap.  
  
"Oh, ick," Somerset groaned in utter disgust, scooping the remains of the pastry onto the plate. With his fork, he attempted to scrape the crumbs and berries off of his robes. A soft gray in color, they were now spattered with cobalt blue.  
  
"Ciel!" Orélie clapped a hand to her mouth, staring in shame at the mess on Somerset's robes. "Oh, I'm so sorry - I should've been more careful…" With fingers moving more wildly than ever, she snatched up her napkin and passed it to Somerset. "Here. I'm so sorry. I'll compensate you - I'll buy you a new set of robes…" She trailed off and buried her head in her hands. "What an awful day."  
  
"Hey!" Orélie hunched her shoulders but couldn't block the admiring tones of Nardo. "That was something. Do you want to be my business partner? I could do spying, and you could do sabotage." Nardo sounded positively delighted at the prospect. Orélie only moaned.  
  
"Nardo," Somerset declared, "One more word out of you and I'll make sure you're never hired again." With an almost savage energy, he flicked at a piece of hair that dared to fall near his eye.  
  
"I'm really sorry," repeated Orélie helplessly. Lacking a response, she continued, "I should've been more careful. You- you don't think I did it on purpose, do you?" She clasped one shaking hand in the other and stared straight ahead of her, awaiting judgment.  
  
"I know it was an accident," Somerset answered with a sigh - annoyed, certainly, but not angry. "Unlike others at this table, I don't consider you a potential saboteur." Nardo glared and Orélie spontaneously returned the scowl. "Just remind me never to bother with your eating habits again," finished Somerset.  
  
Orélie nodded meekly. Then: "Somerset?"  
  
"Mm-hm?" Somerset was tucking a spare napkin between his berry-stained sleeve and his arm.  
  
"Never bother with my eating habits again," parodied Orélie with an innocent smile, hands momentarily at rest due to exhaustion. "Oh, and, um, I'll owl my parents about your robes as soon as I get a spare moment, d'accordo?"  
  
Somerset shook his head and snatched the last of the pizzelles. "No way. It was an accident, and I think they'll come out if I scrub them, or charm them. And if not, well," he shrugged and grinned, "my mother always said blue was my color." Orélie cracked a smile in spite of herself (on her solemn face, the crack was almost audible) and Somerset promptly changed the subject. "What elective courses are you taking?"  
  
"Magical Creatures," Orélie tapped one finger against her glass of orange juice, "Divination," she added a second finger, "Ancient Runes," a third, "and Internal Magic." Her pinky finger joined the others. "I know it's a lot considering that I'm not a workaholic, but none of the fun courses are mandatory." A small sigh made its way from her, no medieval concerns about blood to hold it back. "C'est la vie (that's life)."  
  
"Hey!" Somerset's eyes lit up, lacking the limpidity so often seen in pale irises. "I know what you said that time - 'that's life,' right?" He rolled up his sleeve and tied a napkin, bandage-like, around his other arm.  
  
"Si," agreed Orélie absently. "Why are you bothering with all those napkins? Won't you have time to get changed?" Her eyebrows rose to hide beneath her wispy fringe. "I don't have any of my books with me; maybe I should just run and get them now. Oh, it was so stupid pf me not to bring them--"  
  
"There's plenty of time," interjected Somerset mid-rant. "I just don't like having sticky stuff all over me." Orélie tilted her head looking nonplussed, then sheepish. "Anyway…" Somerset dipped a cloth napkin in a glass of water and began to dab at the stains on his robes, "would you teach me French?"  
  
"Sure," Orélie replied automatically as she drew her right hand across tired eyes. After letting her head hang for a moment, she redirected her gaze at Somerset. "Only if you teach me English, though. If you get a chance to be trilingual, I should too."  
  
Somerset blinked and blandly assured, "I wouldn't dream of denying you the chance to expand your knowledge."  
  
Orélie's eyes narrowed to amber slits. "Are you making fun of me?" she enquired with childlike suspicion. Her fingers arched themselves in an imitation of feline claws.  
  
Lowering his head, Somerset grunted in aggravation. "So far I haven't said anything mean to you, and I told you the sob story of my life here fifteen minutes ago. Why would I make fun of you now?"  
  
"Old habits," Orélie declared darkly as she stood and shoved her empty chair against the table, "die hard." She snatched another napkin from an unoccupied place and handed it to Somerset. "I'm going to get my books."  



	6. In The Sand

Glass Houses, Part Six - In the Sand  
  
Author's Notes: Sorry this one took so long; I was having major trouble finding a title. This chapter contains my first attempt at a pun in Italian; "Morfosi" is part of the Italian word for "metamorphosis" and that seemed apt for a Transfiguration teacher. Wacth future chapters for a familiar character from another one of my stories. Here we have another Angsty Monologue from Orélie, and the first class of the year. Enjoy.  
  
Chapter Title: "How're you gonna fight this lying facedown in the sand?" -- The Gin Blossoms  
  
  
--  
  
Thank goodness I forgot my books - I don't think I could have handled talking to Somerset any longer. It was easier last night at dinner, when there were four of us, but I just can't seem to handle extended periods of one-on-one social interaction. I wonder why. Maybe I'm scared that I'll do something wrong, like… well, like get pastry all over someone's robes. I'll have to find out when his birthday is so I can get him a new set. What did he say his favorite color was? Blue? Can't go wrong with blue. I'll make myself a mental note.  
  
I feel so ridiculous for getting nervous about talking to him, and other people for that matter. I know I can hold my own in an argument if it comes to that, so why am I afraid? It's conversation that worries me, not confrontation. Why? Especially Somerset! He wouldn't hurt a fly, or at least not a fly that didn't hurt him first. I've got to admit he impressed me with the Silvia incident; I was so sure he would just be calm and quiet. But he gave her just what he deserved. He… stood up for me. Somebody stood up for me.  
  
Well, I won't let myself get used to it. Besides, he probably just feels pressured to help everyone. It wasn't about me; it was about principles. I should be happy to know that there are still people with those. Really, he's almost too moral. He'll probably go insane one day and try to take over the world, and I bet I'll be the first one he blasts out of his path. That's what comes of taking up with "nice" people; witness the Pierre incident. Nobody's as good as they seem, except maybe people like Silvia who just can't get any worse than the first impression. I should avoid her or I'll end up getting into trouble per usual.  
  
Where's that stupid shortcut? I must have passed it… why'd the architect make it so darn inconspicuous? So people who weren't supposed to know about it wouldn't notice it, obviously. Oh shut up. The last thing I need is my own brain critiquing me. There it is. Let's see, seven tiles down from that big hallway. I think I can remember that. Now let's hope that I don't have any trouble using my ring to get in; there's no Somerset around to help me and I have no idea where Galina and Carmela and Luis are. I mustn't rely on them. After all, I pride myself on learning from my mistakes.  
  
Let's see now… deep breath. D'accordo, hand against the wall - yes! Ciel, that moment when it turns to smoke is strange. I can almost feel it dematerializing around my hand. What would it be like, to evaporate like that? And why doesn't it just mix with the air? Must be an awfully complex charm. I wonder if I'll ever learn to do it. There's someone else in here, at least one person; I can hear breathing. I'll just poke my head around, oh so quietly… it's that Atlantis girl, and some boy who looks like he's around my age. I don't want them to see me. Silence, move in silence. One shoe against the floor, then shift my weight, then move the other foot - walking is so complicated. Almost at the hallway now. Breathe slowly - no, not so loud, not so shaky. Just natural...  
  
Oh drat, she's spotted me. I'll pretend I don't hear. Just close the door. And through the hallway, into - oh where's my room? Here. Safe at last, or as safe as anyone can ever be in this world - which means not very. I'm so glad we have our own rooms here. Galina and Carmela are nice, or at least they seem nice, but it's so much pressure, being with other people. This way I don't have to… where's my valise? I see the small one, and one of the big ones, but where's the other one? I just know there was a mix-up and they sent it to someone else's room, probably that horrible Silvia, and right now she's laughing over - oh, there it is. Why did I put it behind the bed? The workings of my own mind never cease to confuse me.  
  
Let's see, my books are in the small one. What time is it though? I think I have time to do some unpacking, and I really should water my plants. Will they even fit on the windowsill? The smaller one might… oh, please fit… no. Stupid windowsill. If they're going to put one in, they might as well make it big enough for plants. Stupid architect, Erik whatever-his-name-is. I guess I could put them on top of the dresser; they don't needs much direct sunlight anyway. The horrible thing is so tall that I'll have to stand on tiptoe to water them. What's the watering charm again? I know I read about one… oh, I should get my wand too. Smart move, Orélie. There we go… now what is that charm? Something about water. Aquis? Oh, no, not all over the wood! Finite Incantatem! Now I have to find something to clean up the spill. I could try a charm, but after that last one I'm not even going to risk it. I'll use the hem of my cloak; it won't be cold here for a while. Oh, there isn't that much water. Good thing I stopped the spell in time.  
  
Now I'll try again. Position wand carefully over the plant… right. Aquis! There we go. I wonder if there's a way to modify the speed and quantity of the water. Finite Incantatem. Now the next one. That wasn't so bad, except for the fact that my muscles are aching from reaching up like that. I should probably get to class now - what's the first one? Transfiguration. Then Ancient Runes, then History of Magic, which is near the Glass area anyway so I can probably stop back here in between. I just know I'll forget to unpack my dartboard if I don't do it now, though. I'm going to be late; I can feel it in my bones. Oh well, it's not like I've made a good impression anyway. Is there a nail on one of these walls? Not on that one, or that one… oh, I think I see one! The room's previous occupant must have hung a picture or something. Dartboard, um… large valise number two. Wow, it got heavy. I think I can carry it to the wall though. Ouch! Big stupid thing. If I can just lift it up to meet the nail… oof. Come on, stupid hook, catch on the nail! Oh, there, it's up. Not an ideal spot, but oh no! I'm going to be late for class!  
  
--  
  
Orélie rifled through her smallest valise (bright red monogram intact but for a few fraying threads) and snatched up the two required books, clutching in her other hand the map of the school that had been enclosed in the brochure. Tucking the books under her arm, she swept a few strands of hair out of her face and shoved the door to her room open with her elbow. After slipping through the doorway with the fluid movement of a wraith, she broke into an erratic jog. Her haphazard strides ate the rows of tiled floor and took her in the space of five seconds to the end of Girls' Hallway Two. She then had to pause to open the door to Glass Social Hall, causing her to drop her map and utter a muffled sob. "Get a hold of yourself," she muttered viciously as she knelt to retrieve the precious diagram.  
  
The cluttered furniture of the Social Hall prevented running, but Orélie went so far as to jump over an ottoman, gaining panic with the realization that aside from herself, the room was empty. Once she finally reached the door - stone decorated with panes of stained glass - she increased her speed to a dead run, hard soles of her shoes clattering against the tiled floor. At the entrance to the main hallway, she gave in to the urge to lean against a cold marble wall as she hurriedly consulted the map.  
  
"If this is the front entrance," she mumbled, barely coherent and pointing vaguely at a spot on the map, "Then I'm here - or is it here? Oh, I detest symmetry! I must be here, because I just came from there, so I should continue this way." Giving her head a split-second more of rest against the wall, chin tilted upwards and eyes closed, she pocketed the map before adjusting her heavy books and dashing down a corridor as fast as her long robes would allow.  
  
--  
  
The third year of Glass house filed semi-quietly into the Transfiguration classroom. The Professor, a portly middle-aged man with hair in wiry curls, surveyed them mildly from the front of the room.  
  
"You remember how to arrange yourselves," he stated vapidly. A few of the children sighed as they all lined up in alphabetical order: Kameko, then Carmela, then Francisco, Galina, Hosni, and Luis.  
  
"Um, Professor Morfosi?" Even confident Galina's voice showed the first-day-of-class hesitance, and she cleared her throat before continuing. "There's another of us. Orélie, from Beauxbatons." She ran a finger down the immaculate braid, still damp, that dangled past her left shoulder.  
  
Professor Morfosi tilted his head, mildly perplexed; strands of his hair drooped like wilted plants. "I'd heard as much. So where is Oriel from Beauxbatons?" He looked accusingly at the students. "All of you are far too old for imaginary friends."  
  
"I didn't see her this morning," admitted Galina with furrowed brow, "but I'm sure she's here. Where else could she be?"  
  
"I heard she got in a big fight with a fourth-year this morning," Carmela supplied, multihued eyes wide. She swished her curls. "Maybe she got so upset that she locked herself in her room, or ran away!" Her hands clasped themselves together seemingly of their own accord.  
  
Luis snorted in contempt. "Come on. That only happens in stories." Pausing momentarily, he glanced at the mirrored cover of his wristwatch. "Besides, I saw her at breakfast with some fourth year boy." At this, Kameko, Carmela and Galina exchanged a sly three-way smile. Luis noticed. "They were just talking!" he elaborated. "The point is, she was still here at breakfast."  
  
"Well, how much do we know about her? Does she have a tendency to be late?" Hosni narrowed his eyes in concentration. "How well does she know the school building?"  
  
"Relax, Signor Detective," Kameko laughed. Of all the students, she seemed the most carefree, unless it was a result of exhaustion. Her eyes were barely open, with her field of vision striped by her lashes, and even her hair looked tired.  
  
"This is most intriguing," Morfosi remarked blandly, with a pair of owlish blinks. "Whatever fascinating experience has befallen Signorina Oriana," Galina bit her lower lip to keep from commenting on the error, "we mustn't waste any more class time."  
  
A quiet rapping interrupted the Professor's speech. Morfosi raised his thin eyebrows at the student nearest the door, who happened to be Luis. With uncharacteristic obedience, the gel-haired boy strode to the doorway and turned the metal knob. "It's her," he announced disinterestedly once he saw the figure in the hallway.  
  
"That cuts the possibilities by about half," Francisco observed, slightly amused. "Which her?"  
  
"Me, I suppose," replied Orélie wearily as she entered the room, face flushed and hair disheveled. Shoulders hunching, she approached Professor Morfosi. "Signor? I'm Orélie Jacques, from Beauxbatons. I'm sorry for being late. I got lost." Without further ado or excuses, she turned and paced slowly to the nearest empty desk.  
  
"Stop there," the instructor commanded mildly. "Jacques?" Orélie retraced her steps and observed that the man appeared to be biting one of his nails. "Everyone after Emmanuel move one desk over." Francisco moved over along with Galina, Hosni and Luis, leaving an empty desk between Francisco and Carmela, who apparently bore the surname Emmanuel. "Aurelia, sit between Emmanuel and Librizzi." Orélie opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it, moving silently to the empty desk instead. She stacked her textbooks at the corner of the desk in size order and crossed her ankles neatly.  
  
"No more imaginary students?" Morfosi queried. He ignored his own question and continued. "So, Signorina… uh… Jacques, I see you're not a figment after all. Class - since we have a new student, shall I give the introductory speech from first year?"  
  
"No," piped up Galina, Luis and Kameko in unison; the rest of the class, excluding Orélie, merely groaned.  
  
"You aren't much fun, are you?" asked Morfosi rhetorically. "But I admire your dedication; I see none of you want to waste another moment of class time. Let's proceed straight to the lesson then." This announcement was greeted by muffled sighs and the sounds of students shifting in the attempt to find a comfortable position. "Now, who can give us a review of what we learned last year? Any volunteers?"  
  
Francisco stood, the rubber soles of his shoes squeaking against the tiled floor. Without asking for permission, he launched in to his lecture. "Last-year-we-studied-the-rules-of-Transfiguration-and-the-principles-behind-these-rules-focusing-on-transforming-living-things-to-nonliving-and-vice-versa." He didn't take a single breath during his "review," causing the words to run together and the last phrase to be emitted in a rush of air. The class, with the exceptions of Galina, Hosni and the Professor, wore countenances of confusion.  
  
"That'll do," remarked Morfosi, who didn't appear to be paying attention at all. "Grazie, but please request permission next time." Francisco nodded, looking oddly proud of himself, and the rest of the Glass third year bore expressions of approval. Only Orélie remained in confusion.  
  
Carmela grinned broadly. "That was much quicker than when Morfosi did the review last year," she whispered. "Hey Francisco!" She leaned surreptitiously across Orélie's desk, causing the newer girl to jerk back. "Buono lavoro (good work)!" Francisco nodded smugly.  
  
"Signorina Emmanuel!" Professor Morfosi, going impossibly fast for such an indolent man, arrived at Carmela's desk in a split second. "You were whispering!" he barked. A heavy sigh, and he tilted his head back as if seeking aid from the ceiling. "HOW many TIMES do I have to TELL you? You are in my classroom; you pay attention to me!" Letting his head droop floor-wards, he took a deep breath, and when he spoke again he was back to his mellow tones. "The deterioration of etiquette in today's society is truly reprehensible." Orélie almost nodded, then pretended to look for her quill instead.  
  
The rest of the class remained wisely silent as the irate professor ambled back to his desk. There must have been a stool behind it, because he seemed to instantly grow several inches taller. "Enough fun and games," Morfosi declared indulgently. "This year, we'll start with our Variants unit. That, of course, means Transfiguring a substance into a related form, such as wood to paper." He smiled distantly at his pupils. "Though perhaps in your case, sand to glass would be more appropriate." A moment's silnce passed as he waited for the class to laugh. "Yes, well," the unfortunate Professor continued uncomfortably, "sand to glass it is. Who would like to pass out supplies? Very good, Mitzanova. Tell me when you're done."  
  
Luis, Kameko, Hosni, Francisco and Carmela seized the opportunity to throw significant looks at each other. Orélie narrowed her eyes, drawing her light brows together, in a squinting attempt to gauge Galina's progress. Morfosi abandoned his podium to scribble something in a floppy blue notebook. Galina finished gathering metal dishes filled with sand and silently distributed them, one per desk. "Grazie," Orélie murmured, and Hosni followed suit before returning to a whispered argument with Luis. The other students were too busy making the most of their gossip session to acknowledge anything else; so it was that only Orélie noticed Galina awakening Professor Morfosi from the world of his notebook. "He's done doodling," Orélie informed her classmates, who silenced themselves just in time to escape Morfosi's notice.  
  
The Professor returned to his unseen stool for what seemed like the hundredth time. "Buon (good)," he told the universe approvingly. "Now we can finally get on with the lesson itself. Remember, the most important part of the spell is FOCUS. FOCUS, and the rest will come," he yawned into a rapidly produced handkerchief, "eventually. Remember, the substance will liquefy is you just CONVINCE the particles to move. Take advantage of natural processes!"  
  
The seven students looked obediently at their respective dishes, except for Kameko who was tracking the progress of a spider on the ceiling. Morfosi pulled his notebook from an invisible pocket and continued to make enthusiastic lines of ink. As Orélie had observed, it looked more like sketching than writing. After a few minutes of intense concentration, steam began to rise from a few of the dishes.  
  
Orélie spread her sand evenly over the circular bottom of the dish, then used spiral motions to heat it. Very slowly, the grains melted into each other and became transparent - first the outer edges, the heat spreading towards the center of what was beginning to become a disk.  
  
"Look at mine," Carmela muttered to Kameko. The placid (or tired) girl nodded approvingly at Carmela's flat piece of putty-turning-to-glass, where air bubbles popped and left spherical impressions. Kameko gestured toward her own dish. She had heated a small section, and then piled the rest of the sand on top. It melted in layers like those of a mud castle.  
  
"Oh, molto buona (very good)!" Morfosi exclaimed, catching sight of Galina's work. He lifted it from the dish to show the class and burned his fingers slightly in the process. "She's finished already. See the PURITY, the CLARITY of the glass? PERFECTLY flat and smooth!" Carmela and Hosni nodded politely; the others were too busy with their own projects.  
  
Orélie's glass soup had hardened to a waxy consistency. Biting her lower lip, she began to pull the edges upward with her wand. Every few seconds, she stopped and used her wand to hollow the middle of the circle, providing more edge-material.  
  
"Refinito (finished)!" Luis declared. Gingerly, he wrapped his hand in parchment and raised his completed effort. It was a knobby lump, brown-tinted, and reflected the light at interesting angles.  
  
Morfosi frowned. "Si… that is technically a successful transformation. Note, however, the imperfections of the piece: the irregular shape, the flawed hue."  
  
"It might look nice hanging on someone's window," Luis pointed out, clearly unrepentant. "See how it makes rainbows?" He tilted the chunk of glass slightly, causing the aforementioned rainbows to be cast, shimmering, on Professor Morfosi's face. Morfosi hurriedly stepped away from the floating colors.  
  
"Signorina Emmanuel, let's see how you did. Not bad; good color although your heating technique appears to have been inconsistent. You've improved since last year." Seeing that Orélie was not yet finished, he moved over to Kameko. "What's this? You can do better than this." He fixed the recalcitrant girl with a stern look. "It would seem that you rushed through it."  
  
"Spiacente (sorry)," Kameko replied quietly, her tone properly apologetic. "My balloon arrived at around one o'clock last night - or this morning."  
  
Morfosi immediately softened his expression. "Oh, right. I'd forgotten about that. I think I can let it pass this one time." His next steps took him three desks down, once more bypassing the still-working Orélie. "Librezzi, let's see yours." Francisco smiled slightly as he displayed his piece of glass, which was almost as smooth as Galina's but contained a few grains of sand entrapped within the disk. "I see you used your usual concentration on the minor details, but your transformation wasn't as thorough as it could have been."  
  
"Si, Signor," Francisco acknowledged. "I'll remember for next time." Morfosi nodded in vague approval and moved on to praise Hosni's attention to reliable heating. Orélie painstakingly put the finishing touches on her project.  
  
"And Signorina Jacques… well that's interesting." Francisco and Galina turned their heads to examine the situation. Professor Morfosi extended his hand, and Orélie passed him a small, slightly asymmetrical but very clear glass bowl. "Good heating technique, though it could be improved - this side of the bowl is thinner than the other. There doesn't seem to be any remaining sand. The bowl is nice for an impromptu piece, but don't let your creativity get in the way of the basics."  
  
"May I keep it?" Orélie asked guardedly. One of her hands reached for the bowl of its own accord. Professor Morfosi offered no resistance. "It might be useful, you know, to put things in."  
  
"To put things in." Morfosi's dark blue eyes took on a glazed look as he repeated the phrase. "Si… si, I suppose you may. Remember, though, that these are supplies. Try not to get so attached to them in the future." He craned his neck to look at the other students, all of whom were in varying states of distraction, and then glared inattentively at Orélie. "Oh, drat, now I have to practice the impartiality policy. Fine then," (he raised his voice), "each of you may keep one object over you make this year."  
  
A few students - Hosni, Kameko and Galina - looked up with puzzled expressions, coming too late to the realization that the Professor had made an announcement. The remaining three students followed suit, until all seven members of the class sat attentively at their desks, wide innocent eyes awaiting further information.  
  
"WELL then?" boomed Morfosi. "Get out. The CLASS has ENDED, children. Go ON now." This was a statement that every student could comprehend. In a mere twitch of muscles, Luis was opening the door. Francisco, Kameko, Carmela, Hosni and Orélie followed, the latter carefully carrying her glass bowl. Galina brought up the rear, haphazardly shoving the door closed behind her.  
  
The first few steps through the hallway were taken in relative silence, footfalls mingling with mutters from neighboring corridors. It was Luis who cut through the quiet. "FINALLY, we're OUT of there--" and just as abruptly he clapped a hand over his mouth. A few seconds passed before he once more allowed himself to speak in a vicious mutter. "I hate it when that happens." Kameko laughed freely; Francisco and Orélie gave a slight smile (one each, of course). Luis merely ran a hand through his hair.  



End file.
